


Jeeves and the Impasse

by nothotbutveryspicy



Category: Jeeves & Wooster, Jeeves - P. G. Wodehouse
Genre: First Kiss, Getting Together, Love Confessions, M/M, POV Bertram "Bertie" Wooster, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-12
Updated: 2020-06-12
Packaged: 2021-03-04 02:35:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,113
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24686218
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nothotbutveryspicy/pseuds/nothotbutveryspicy
Summary: In which, dash it all, Bertie tries to figure out how to tell Jeeves that he loves him.
Relationships: Reginald Jeeves/Bertram "Bertie" Wooster
Comments: 28
Kudos: 155





	Jeeves and the Impasse

**Author's Note:**

> Hullo, hullo!
> 
> First fic I've written with the intention of posting, and first in this Wodehousian style (not a touch on the real thing).
> 
> Special thank you to the wonderful lincoln_still_sucks for being a marvelous beta. Cannot thank you enough! The praise and suggestions you offered were invaluable. 
> 
> Well, you know, enjoy, and all that! :)

* * *

One comes to a point in one’s life when one falls in love and is ready to settle down with one’s beloved. Likely, one of the great poets has a better way of putting it, and I’m quite sure Jeeves, if asked, would have a quote ready at hand. Or Bingo Little for that matter. But it is not Jeeves, nor Bingo having this romantical thought. It is this Wooster, and this was how I thought it. This thought, I mean. About being ready to fall in love and settle down, and all that rot.

You’re probably thinking to yourself, well, Wooster who is the girl? Tell us and don’t leave us in the dark, old man! And it is here that I must admit that I’m never sure how much of an introduction I should include as a lead up to the main _spiel_ , if you catch my meaning. 

If you’re familiar with my ramblings, you’ll know that I have been engaged quite a few times. However, it is not the simpering Madeleine Bassett, nor the formidable Florence Craye with whom I’ve fallen head over heels. Oh, no! 

Well, dash it all, Wooster - you’re probably thinking to yourself - just tell us!

Well, it is my man, Jeeves, of course. As Stiffy Byng has put it on occasion, he is one specific dream-rabbit, and I couldn’t agree more heartily. I won’t go on too much, but suffice it to say that this Wooster is not immune to those finely-chiseled features nor that fish-fed brain of his. 

The only problem, re: settling down with my beloved, was that I needed to communicate to him that he was my beloved. I had been mulling this over for some time, but to no end. It was then that it occurred to me that Bingo Little, lifelong chum of mine, would be just the chap to speak to. Bingo being the romantic sort who falls in love at the drop of a hat, he’d surely have some sagely advice to offer the lovelorn and despondent. 

As it was, I was in high spirits as I readied to leave my flat for the Drones club. Jeeves helped me with my coat and I felt a pleasant warmth where he smoothed down the fabric over my shoulders. I put a hat on the Wooster bean, and Jeeves handed me my whangee. Both our hands seemed to linger momentarily and a jolly tingling emanated from the point of contact where my fingers touched his. Jeeves withdrew his hand to brush some dust or some such from my coat, and my eyes quickly drifted to the floor. It is not the done thing for a man to stare so intensely as his valet, you know. 

Little moments like these were becoming more frequent and more unbearable. Jeeves retained his air of polite and attentive civility throughout, but I felt myself more and more shaken. I had to speak with Bingo, as soon as possible. 

With that, I patted my hat once, chirped a quick “Toodle-pip!” and was off out the door. 

* * *

I soon arrived at the Drones club, and I was delighted to find, there sitting at the bar, was Bingo Little, just the chap I wanted to see. 

“What ho, Bingo! Just the chap I wanted to see.” I said, taking a seat next to him and ordering myself a drink.

“What ho, Bertie!” He replied.  
  
“Bingo, old fruit, have you ever thought about love?” I asked him, getting right to it. 

“Oh, Bertie,” he sighed, resting his chin on an upturned hand, “are you in love? How wonderful!”

“Er, yes. There’s a slight problem, old chap, as I don’t quite know how to confess my, er, feelings, don’t you know.” I explained. 

“What could possibly be the problem, Bertie?” Bingo began to rise out of his seat, reaching with his arm with the air of some fellow from a Rosie M. Banks story. “You must tell her that she is a tender goddess and that you worship the very ground beneath her feet. Mention how she walks in beauty and grace-”

“Yes, alright, Bingo,” I flapped an impatient arm at him. “That’s all very well and good for you to go around comparing girls to tender goddesses. But, that won’t help me at the mo.” 

“Well, why not?” He asked, shaken from his fantasy and sitting back down.

I paused a moment to take a sip from my drink, trying to think of the best way to explain the sitch, when it came to me.

“I find myself in a posish not unlike your uncle, Bingo.” I began.

“I haven’t got an uncle Bingo. I do have an uncle Mortimer. Although, he’s Lord Bittlesham now. You’ve met before.” 

“Yes, yes. Your uncle, Lord Bittlesham.” I responded patiently. It wouldn’t do to upset the chap when here I was the fathead looking for advice. “He and his cook are married, aren’t they? Well, what I’d like to know is how did your uncle approach the subj. of love and marriage with his cook? It wouldn’t do to compare a member of one’s staff to a tender goddess only for her to run for the hills. Or worse, for her to go along with everything - viz., the marriage - because she felt she was in no position to run for said hills. No, that’s just not cricket, old thing.”

“Oh, Bertie! You’re in love with your cook?” He rose again a sickly grin on his face, wrapping his arms around me and mumbling something about how love conquers all, stretching across the divide of class distinction to unite lovers, or some such drivel. I was beginning to get irritated. 

“No, no, no.” I extricated myself, and sat us both down in our respective seats. “While I’m glad I would have your support in that scenario, old thing, I don’t even have a cook. That was merely a comparison to illustrate the plot, as it were. Now, do tell me. How did your uncle know that his stirrings of love were reciprocated?”

“Oh, Bertie,” he patted my hand and spoke to me as if to a young child of below average intellect, “all of that just comes naturally when one is in love. When it is true love, Bertie, one just...” he paused here to sigh dreamily again, “...knows.” 

Bingo’s gaze drifted into the distance, a rose-tinted haze falling over his eyes, and I knew I would get nothing more out of him. 

* * *

I didn’t get the answers I needed from Bingo, and my step was lacking it’s regular spring as I made my way back to the flat later. Jeeves materialised from the kitchen upon my arrival and took my hat and coat. I must say the sight of him was a tonic for this Wooster’s spirit.

“Jeeves?” I called.

“Yes, sir?” Jeeves shimmered beside me, a freshly prepared b. and s. ready in his hand. 

“Have you ever thought about love?” I inquired. Our fingers brushed lightly as I took the glass from him, and my heart fluttered at the contact. Good Lord, I was so potty for the man, it was embarrassing. 

“Shakespeare has said of love, sir, ‘love looks not with the eyes-’”

“No, Jeeves. Now is not the time for Shakespeare.” I plonked myself down on the sofa. 

“No, sir.”

“Jeeves, do you remember Bingo’s uncle, Lord Bittlesham?” I asked. 

“Yes, sir. Lord Bittlesham of Pounceby Gardens. If I remember correctly, with the expressed desire to increase his allowance, on which Mr Little is reliant upon his Lordship, Mr Little employed a stratagem which induced his Lordship to marry his cook, a Miss Watson.”

“Precisely, Jeeves. Well I spoke to young Bingo earlier down at the Drones about this Lord Bittlesham marrying his cook business.”

“Indeed, sir?”

“Yes, Jeeves. I wanted to inquire as to how this outcome had occurred. You know, how they both came to the same conclusion that they were dippy for each other, and that they should get hitched.”

“Indeed, sir?” 

“Er, yes, for a pal of course.” I rushed to explain. “A chap down the Drones is in love with, er, a maid at his, er, aunt’s country house. Yes, and I believed Bingo could have the solution, what with his uncle marrying his cook and all that, but I didn’t get far with Bingo. Oftentimes, it’s as if he believes he lives in one of those blasted Rosie M. Banks novels his uncle loves so much.”

“Yes, sir. While Mr Little could be described as a romantic, he can perhaps at times be unrealistic in his approach to romance in a practical sense.”

“Quite right. Well, Jeeves, I put the question to you now. How should a chap tell a member of his staff he is in love with hi-, er, her? As he is the employer, and she the employed, she may feel she can’t refuse and may say yes to keep her position, you see. How could he ever know if he-, er, she really loved him in return?” 

“Indeed, sir. A very delicate situation. One presumes that Lord Bittlesham and his cook both had an idea of the other’s feelings before any true confessions were made.”

“An idea of the other’s feelings?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, therein lies the problem, Jeeves.” I pointed out. I put down my glass and lit a cigarette. “How can one have an idea of the other’s feelings in the first place?”

“One would normally take notice of subtle signs and signals, in this case, sir.”

“Subtle signs and signals, Jeeves?”

“Yes, sir. One must intuit a deeper meaning from seemingly innocuous gestures.The gentle brush of a hand, a longing gaze from across the room. These are mere examples, sir.”

“Alright, Jeeves, but one can hardly brush the hand of their maid nonchalantly, can they? Or stare at her from across the room as she polishes the silver?”

“No, sir.”

“Not very _preux_ , Jeeves.”

“No, sir.”

There was a pause and I took a moment to puff on my cigarette. I heard a gentle tinkling of glass, and Jeeves appeared beside me again with another b. and s. ready in his hand. My skin buzzed where his fingers grazed mine after I took the glass.

“It would almost be easier, Jeeves,” I ploughed on, taking a shaky sip, “if the, er, maid could confess her feelings first, and then I-, er, that is, the chap, er, my pal, wouldn’t be in such a difficult posish, what?”

“Perhaps, sir. But, it would be unwise for her to confess her love, if she were not quite certain that her feelings were requited. It may not be possible to predict the reaction of her employer. If she made advances, she could threaten the loss of her job and she may risk staining her reputation in future.” 

Well, that was a turn-up for the whatsit. I was surprised at this, as I hadn’t thought about it that way before. I had only been concerned with my own feelings, never sparing some of the grey matter to consider how Lord Bittlesham’s cook may have felt, or how Jeeves may feel. Quite a rummy thought, and it only added to the rumminess of the whole sitch. 

“Well, Jeeves,” I sighed dejectedly, like a dejected thing, “it looks like we-, er, I mean to say, they’re at an impasse. If impasse is the word I’m looking for?”

“Yes, sir. Perfectly correct use of the word.”

“That is, if neither can be one hundred percent certain, and they’re relying on smoke signals and whatsits, they’ll never confess their love for one another, and they’ll carry on like that forever.” I drained my glass, stubbed out my cigarette and flopped back heavily onto the couch cushions.

There was a slight twitch about Jeeves’ face, well not quite a twitch, but a shift from his normal attentive and intelligent expression, not that anyone else would have noticed, but I had an eye for this kind of thing when it came to Jeeves. There was a pause where I thought he was about to say something, and my eyes moved up to look at his finely-chiseled face. 

I felt my heart thump once against my ribs when his eyes met mine, and continue to thrum gently in my chest after our eyes locked. The smoke from my cigarette hung suspended in the air and I felt my face grow hot under his gaze. The silence stretched out until I could bear it no longer and took a breath to speak, but Jeeves beat me to it and in an instant the spell was broken.

“Will that be all, sir?” His voice was hushed and unfamiliar. I didn’t trust that any sound out of my own mouth would be recognisable as human, so I merely nodded and waved him off. 

Disappointed, I sunk down deeper into the sofa and watched as Jeeves disappeared into his lair. 

* * *

I can’t say that I got many hours of the dreamless that night, and it was a worn-out and weary Wooster who arose next morning. After Jeeves drifted in with my tea, taxidermied frog impression out in full force, I bunged the corpus in the bath for a quick splash, and tried to think of the best course of action. Bingo is all for grand, romantic displays, but Jeeves had mentioned that subtlety was key. What could I do to get the message across? Subtly, of course. 

It occurred to me that I should approach this by considering the psychology of the individual, as Jeeves always says, and he hasn’t steered me wrong yet.

Jeeves is a clever cove and spends much of his free time reading improving books, though what he could possibly improve upon I couldn’t tell you. Perhaps I could purchase for him an edition by one of those philosophers he likes, or a poet? Although, a gift might give him the wrong idea. 

The Wooster brain continued in high gear over breakfast. I poked absently at my eggs and b., barely tasting a thing, whereupon my thoughts about candles and piano serenades were interrupted by a familiar cough. 

“Is your breakfast not to your liking, sir?” Jeeves asked, stuffed frog still firmly in place.

“Fine, Jeeves, fine. Just thinking, you know?” I replied reassuringly, taking another bite of the eggs and b., and waved him off. 

I rather fancied getting out of the flat would be for the best, but I hardly thought I had the constitution - if that’s the correct word - to face any member of the general pop. what with the state I was in and I doubted that, between them, my pals at the Drone’s would have a helpful suggestion. No, Bertram was going to have to figure this one out on his own.

I spent the day mooching about the flat, flitting from the sofa to the chaise, from this chair to that chair. I wracked what little brains I had for some words, for a signal or a gesture, for some way to convey the tender feelings of the heart to Jeeves. 

I must say, I was also feeling rather anxious about how he may react. What if he laughed, and thought me a buffoon? What if he turned up his nose at me and sneered? What if he responded with aloof, cold indifference? What if he didn’t love me back? 

I worked myself up into knots but it seemed there was nothing doing. I was still deliberating later that evening, while plucking away at the piano. Jeeves shimmered hither and thither throughout the flat, casting an eye over at me occasionally. It wasn’t until the umpteenth time that I noticed my gaze had been following his movements, and I dropped my eyes back to my fingers on the keys. 

It was just no bally use! I sighed, rose from the piano seat and moved to pour myself a b. and s., with very little s. I must say. I finished pouring and set the glass down. Then poured a second. 

“Jeeves?” I called.

“Yes, sir?” Jeeves materialised at my elbow. 

I turned and smiled up at him, offering a glass. He took it from me, an eyebrow raising a fraction of an inch. 

“I’ve been thinking a lot today, Jeeves, about love.” I told him, taking a sip of my own drink. 

“Indeed, sir?” Still a slight air of taxidermied frog about him, but much improved. 

“Yes, Jeeves, and about this impasse. You know, the signals and the inuits.” 

“I think the word you are looking for, sir, is intuit-”

“No, Jeeves, I’m looking for the words to tell you that I bally well love you.” 

I will admit I spoke rather hastily and sharply, and I felt my heart hit the floor at my own outburst. I stared at Jeeves, my eyes as wide as saucers, my mouth opening and closing soundlessly like a goldfish. 

I heard Jeeves draw in a sharp breath through his nose, and his eyes snapped suddenly to meet mine. His eyebrows drew slowly upward and his lips parted slightly. I expected the stuffed frog impression in response, but instead he just stared back at me wordlessly, an amused smile playing at the corners of his mouth

“That is to say…” I tried, gesturing with one arm. I was spiralling, at a loss. “What I mean is...” I tried again. I placed my glass down on the mantle and ran both my hands through my hair squeezing my eyes closed tight. If I thought hard enough I was sure I could will the words back and Jeeves would never have heard them!

There was a quiet clink before I felt two warm hands enfold mine and carefully untangle them from my tresses. Jeeves lowered my arms slowly, then kept my hands gingerly enveloped in his. At his gentle cough, I reluctantly opened my eyes to look at him. 

I half expected him to hand in his resignation at this unprompted declaration, or tell me to go boil my head and end this silly lark right this moment. I couldn’t believe my eyes when I beheld Jeeves looking at me. His eyes glittering and crinkled slightly at the corners, a rare and genuine smile tugging at his lips.

“Do you love me, sir?” He asked, his voice hushed and secretive. 

“I didn’t mean for it to come out like that, Jeeves, I’m sorry. You deserve…” I began, but Jeeves spoke again. 

“Please correct me if I am wrong, sir, but I assume you were seeking guidance from Mr Little for yourself, and not for one of your friends, as you said.”

“No, Jeeves, that’s correct.” I tried to reason, to explain. “But I-” 

Luckily, I didn’t get to finish my sentence because I have no clue what I was about to say. What stopped me in my tracks was the sound of Jeeves laughing. Well, perhaps you could say it was more of a chuckle, deep from his chest. Nevertheless, it was the most beautiful sound I had ever heard, and I vowed in that moment to ensure I heard it again. And frequently at that!

“Oh, Jeeves,” I groaned. “You figured it out immediately, didn’t you?”

He was no longer laughing - or chuckling - but there was a mirth in his voice which I must say I rather enjoyed hearing, even given the awkward circs. 

“Please do forgive me, sir. I had hoped you would infer from what I said last night-”

“Of course, Jeeves, it’s crystal clear now,” I shook my head. “You spoke about subtlety and I was as obvious and as clueless as a bally fool.” I felt my cheeks grow warm, and lowered my head. I was quite ashamed. 

“I never thought you a fool, sir.” Jeeves spoke softly but with conviction, his thumbs rubbing slowly over my fingers. 

“Not even when I bungled round Somersetshire with boot polish on my face?”

“No, sir.”

“Nor when I got stage-fright and shouted ‘Fire!’ in that theatre full of people?”

“No, sir.”

“But what about when I-”

“Never, sir,” he squeezed the fins reassuringly. “You must allow me to tell you, sir, that I have not met a man with a kinder heart, nor a more generous spirit than yours.”

“You don’t think me mentally negligible then, Jeeves?” I asked, and a rather pained and pinched expression overtook his fine face at this. 

“Oh, sir, it causes me a great deal of distress to know that I have hurt you with these words. I assure you that the phrase was only ever uttered with the intention of extracting you from an undesirable situation. I wish to tell you now that I adore you, quite ardently, and have done for some time.”

I couldn’t believe my ears! This paragon, this god among men, was telling me that he loved me as I loved him? I was gobsmacked, and it must have shown upon my face as I saw the corner of Jeeve’s mouth twitch with amusement. 

“And, if you’ll excuse me, sir, for taking the liberty…” His voice growing more hushed with each word until it was barely a whisper. 

He moved closer to me, slowly, like a man approaching some timid and frightened animal that was likely to make a dash for it at any moment. He let go of my hands to gently cup my face, one of his thumbs tenderly caressing my cheek, while I stood rather stuck to the spot. 

Then his lips pressed against mine. 

Only for a short moment, a bally glorious moment at that, but then he was pulling back a bit, having noticed that I was still frozen in place like an ice sculpture. I felt his hands start to withdraw from my face.

Well, I couldn’t have this, now could I? The man of my dreams had just announced his love for me and was kissing me and I stood still as a statue? No, no, this wouldn’t do.

Before Jeeves could retract too far, I all about leapt on the man, slinging my arms about his broad shoulders and stretching up to land my lips back on his. I’ll say, this effort from me kicked him back into action and he caught me about the waist, kissing me back with much gusto. 

His lips moved against mine, mine against his, and I tilted my head to deepen the labial press. In response, Jeeves rumbled, a low and gravelly rumble, and I was amazed to feel the vibrations reverberating in my own chest. Delighted and emboldened, I tightened my grip on his shoulders and poked out my tongue to trace his bottom lip. I was immensely pleased that another soft sound emitted from Jeeves’ mouth, something akin to a groan. His tongue emerged to meet mine, drawing a sharp-ish gasp from my own lungs, and I felt my stomach twirl and swoop like billy-o. 

I had never experienced anything as intoxicating as kissing Jeeves. Upon his lips was a hint of the brandy he had drunk, and the rest can only be described as, well, Jeevesian. I dare say, neither a four-course meal at the Ritz nor the finest perfume from Paris could compare to the sensory experience, and I relished every moment I was enveloped in his warmth. 

We traded soft sighs and groans back and forth as we kissed, and I marvelled at every sound Jeeves made. My hands clutched desperately at his shoulders, his clasped on the small of my back, pulling me close against him. I felt rather like the heroine of a romance novel, swept up in the arms of her lover, and I was eager to continue the goings-on, but at one point the need for air became altogether pressing. 

“Good lord,” I gulped, as we eventually and reluctantly separated. There was a fine, crimson blush high on my man’s cheeks and he gazed down at me through half-closed eyes, rather like a cat relaxing in a beam of sunshine. 

“Indeed, sir.” He exhaled, sounding quite breathless himself, I’ll say.

“I think, perhaps, we can do away with the honorific, eh Jeeves?” 

He responded with another soft press of his lips against mine combined with a low hum, which I took to be his assent, and I’m surprised I didn’t melt into a puddle of goo at that. 

“I dare say,” I tittered, having recovered somewhat, “there’s hardly any need to call me ‘sir’ now, not when you’ve just had your tongue in my mouth, what?”

He laughed that wonderful, rumbling chuckle again, and all was right in the world.


End file.
